


being human

by ludgerkresnik



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU but not really AU, Angst, Angst and Porn, Gen, M/M, Nyotalia, in which america is a human, second part doesn't contain smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ludgerkresnik/pseuds/ludgerkresnik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russia shouldn't be in a bar in New York City, he shouldn't be where the music is impossibly loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He shouldn't be in some bar in New York City, where the music is obscenely loud and the girls under-dressed, he should be at home, doing paperwork or relaxing, perhaps call his sisters. Yet, here is he, in New York, where he can't hear anything this boy with those large blue eyes and that slight Southern drawl _he_ got when he was drunk, excited or angry and that pretty, round face with that stupid, large smile of his.

Russia knows that this boy is too young to be in a bar, but he says he just turned 21 and Russia just accepts it as fact. Everything prior to the last few years, the _boy_ admits to not really remembering, like it had all been a blur. This is a common thing for ex-nations, but not so much for former micro-nations. This _boy_ will grow old, he will fall in love with someone and marry them, he doesn't have a clue who Russia _actually_ is, only knows him by the name of Ivan, who is just visiting this country out of curiosity. Alfred comments that he seems familiar, but he can't figure out who he is, and Russia only smiles. It's not lecherous or evil, it's just a blank smile, as if to say, _'Oh, how strange.'_ because Nations are familiar to humans, like they've met each other before, perhaps gone to school with each other. At some point, they can even start to feel like family.

They flirt—of course they flirt—and Russia tries to keep his hands to himself. He misses that skin, those slight curves, that stomach that would either be soft or firm, depending on the year and the celebration. And he's angry at Alfred, whom this _boy_ calls himself, because _America_ left him. It's obvious _Alfred_ is interested in him, it's obvious by the way those large eyes flick up and down, that cocky smile grows and Russia is almost amused.

“My body hurts too much,” Had been the damn excuse, the reason to give up Nation status, after having been _born_ , _blessed, cursed_ as a Nation. _Everyone else_ managed hundreds of years and are still going, and _how dare America just give up like that_. “I'm sure this new person will be just as awesome as I am!” They survived invasions, famines, wars, _genocide_ and yet, here America just gives up just like that, Russia finds it almost _fucking insulting_.

They hadn't even known who the new person was until Canada had decided to visit California on a whim. He had sensed her nearby, and _she_ didn't even know, but fuck her. She doesn't matter because she's not him, even though she has the same straw blonde hair and the same damn blue eyes, with that awful addiction to unhealthy food. She's just as loud, but it's not as endearing and she's not as fun to antagonize.

Russia can't hear America— _no, Alfred—_ over the music and his own fucking thoughts, that he places once hand on his face and it just remains there for a moment, _Alfred_ going quiet, with confusion written all over his face. He leans in, closes the space, and gently pecks his lips. He isn't sure why, because this _human_ isn't America, no, _America_ is dead. _America_ disappeared, because he was a goddamn coward he couldn't handle a failing government and Russia is _pissed_. He's pissed because this _human_ wears _his_ face, has _his_ eyes and his voice and his body and personality--

He kisses Alfred again, despite the barrage of questions, this time harder, hands quickly moving behind his head and pressing in. Alfred eventually does kiss back, after momentary shock and rests his hands against Russia's thighs.

Alfred tries to be sneaky and slide his hands up, but it doesn't really go unnoticed and it isn't as 'sexy' as he thinks it is, but Russia is able to forgive it. They have to break away after a moment, Alfred is flushed and panting, and it amuses Russia so much.

“Uh,” Alfred swallows, Adams apple bobbing as he does so. “Back to my place?”

Russia nods, and Alfred almost falls out of his seat trying to get up. Russia nearly calm as he follows, his hand tightly grasped in Alfred's. His car isn't too shabby, obviously used, and it's messy. _America_ always kept his meticulously clean, and Russia never understood why _America_ would call an inanimate object his 'baby' or a 'she', but after awhile, he'd stopped verbalizing it when he never got an actual response outside of, “'Cause she's my baby!” It was so redundant.

The drive isn't too long, and it's a rundown apartment, vastly different than the high-rise he'd used to live in. They half fumble out, and into the building after Alfred had turned off the ignition and locked the doors. The hallways almost echo with their footsteps, and the doors are worn down and chipping away and Alfred half apologizes for the state. “College student, y'know, gotta be smart.”

Russia slams America into the wall, pressing his body close, a form of renewed anger because his _America_ and this _Alfred_ are too different and too similar and he _hates_ it and hate this _human_ before him. Among the Nations, outside of their citizens, there is this silent sense of superiority because _humans_ die too easily, _humans_ get sick quickly and they can get hurt and they're mortal.

Alfred's eyes are wide, and he winces when his back strikes against the wall. Russia leans in, and nips at his neck and lips, pulling at his shirt and biting at his collar bone. After that, he kisses Alfred hard on the lips, tongue entering Alfred's mouth and he tastes the cheap beer, tongues rub against each other and he can feel Alfred's erection press up against him. Russia resumes biting his neck and collar bone, making sure to leave teeth indentations and marks that will last him for weeks.

He finally pulls away, and allows a red, panting and stumbling Alfred to finish leading him to his apartment, third floor, middle of the hallway. There's a brief apology about the mess, which honestly, is much like _his_ America except there's books, trash, clothes and a couple of old maps strewn on the floor. On the coffee table in the living room are a bunch of text books, two of them open and a coffee-stained notebook.

It's somehow comforting and warm, and Russia _detests_ it.

The clothes come off quickly, Alfred lacks the scars _America_ did. He doesn't have that scar on his shoulder blade from his war of Independence, or the one across his chest from when Pearl Harbor was bombed, there aren't any on his stomach or any more on his back. They're all mostly gone, except one on his right shoulder blade and Alfred doesn't know what it's from. If Russia remembers correctly, that scar on _America_ was from the Civil War. When Alred reaches to remove Russia's scarf and shirt, Russia smacks his hands away, a little too harshly because the instant draw back and that look almost makes Russia feel bad.

“They stay on,” he says, a little too sharply. Alfred nods in understanding, and Russia draws him close again, softly kissing his lips and neck, and down his chest. Alfred moans softly in response, fingers running along his hipbones. “You're beautiful.” Except, _his_ America is _much_ more beautiful.

“You're not so bad yourself,” comes the awkward response and Russia chuckles a little bit. Typical.

They stumble into Alfred's bedroom, where Russia eyes the American flag haphazardly tacked onto the wall, and he shoves Alfred onto the messy bed. Russia doesn't waste his time with crawling onto the bed afterwards, pushing Alfred's legs apart and ducking his head down.

Russia grasps at the base, and licks at the leaking tip and along the length. He wraps his lips around the the head and gives a gentle suck, earning a loud moan and feeling Alfred buck his hips. Russia sucks a little harder and moves down further, along the bases and releases his hand from grasping his penis to playing with his balls. As he sucks and bobs his head, pushing his erection as far down his throat as it'll go to running his tongue along the underside, he squeezes and plays with his balls using both hands.

Alfred grips the dark blue bedding, thrusting his hips upward and unable to conceal his moans. Hands move up and touch his shoulders, gripping hard and leaving nail indentations. Eventually, Russia pulls off, a string of pre-cum and saliva following. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking down at the bleary eyed younger man.

“Lube?”

Alfred points, unable to form coherent words. Russia gets up and searches through the drawer he'd pointed to, and finds an almost empty bottle of lube. He hopes it won't be a problem, and almost has no qualms in going in dry or causing some sort of physical harm to this _human._ Russia kneels back onto the bed, opening up the lid and squirts some into his hand.

He lathers himself up, and squirts a little bit more onto his fingers and presses against Alfred's entrance. There's resistance, but he finally manages to get in one finger and pokes around before half way forcing in the other, earning a whimper of pain. Russia teases his prostate, probing, pressing and rubbing, as Alfred pushes against his fingers now, the pain having subsided.

Russia removes his fingers after a few moments, deciding that he was prepared enough and strokes his cock, smiling down at Alfred.

“Are you ready?”

There's a moment, and Russia can almost sense the hesitancy. “Uh, s-sure.”

“Are you sure?” Comes the murmur. “We can stop.” He doesn't want to ask if Alfred is actually a virgin.

“Yes.” Comes the firm response. “I'm ready. I'll tell you to stop if I want you to stop.”

Russia settles himself in between Alfred's legs, raising both of them to his hips and slowly guides himself into his entrance. He pauses for a moment, watching a brief flash of pain cross Alfred's face, now feeling bad for wanting to inflict harm on him.

“Relax,” comes the whisper. “Deep breath.”

“Y-yeah,” Alfred grunts out and Russia slowly pushes in more, watching Alfred's chest rise and in hearing that sharp intake of breath. Arms wrap around his shoulders, and fingers dig into his back. Russia peppers kisses along his face and eyelids, and he finally settles in. They remain still for a moment, Alfred adjusting to the sudden intrusion and soon enough, he starts to squirm and move his hips a little.

Russia pulls out to just the tip, and pushes back in, careful to remain as gentle and slow as he could. As Alfred relaxes, Russia picks up the pace and starts to thrust in and out, faster and balls slapping against his skin. The moans from Alfred are loud and the sharp pain in his back from Alfred scratching and digging his nails in only fuel him more. Their hips meet at almost the same pace, Alfred's movements only more awkward and inexperienced. Russia lets out low groans at how tight Alfred is, and how _hot_ this is.

It's only in this moment, Russia remembers that this isn't _his_ America, that this is just a human who looks and acts just like him and he feels a tightness in his chest and throat. His lungs constrict, so he bends down, pushing their bodies as close as he possibly can and buries his face in the crook of Alfred's neck. He hides his tears, hardening and quickening his pace.

Alfred's moans are loud in his ear, and Russia reaches between their bodies, grasping at Alfred's cock and strokes it in time with his thrusts. Soon, Alfred is cumming on both their chests—and staining Russia's shirt. Alfred's grasp loosens and Russia cums almost soon afterwards.

Collapsing on top of Alfred, Russia rolls off of him and lays on his side, running his fingers through sweat damp hair. Alfred half cuddles into him, slowly falling asleep and neither saying a word and Russia pretending he hadn't been crying. When Alfred falls asleep, Russia sits up and stares at down at the boy.

“I hate you,” he says, voice sounding loud in the otherwise silent room. Alfred remains undisturbed. Russia stills for a moment, thinking. Humans are only ever quick fucks for Nations, they're not worth being in a relationship because their lives are so short. Some start relationships, but they never last. Things get in the way, humans fall in love with other humans or desire children or something that a Nation just cannot provide.

So, Russia crawls out of bed, gathers his clothes, dresses and leaves. Out in the hall, his throat constricts again and he _hates_ it. Just as he hates that boy in that apartment, and he sits down on the floor and lets the tears fall, burying his face in his hands.

It isn't until the sobs finish wracking his body, he manages to collect himself and stumble out. When he returns home, a week later, he doesn't tell his sisters or anyone where he's been, he just simply pretends it never happened.

 


	2. becoming human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of linear with the first part of it, kind of not. I was gonna just make this it's own thing but decided not to so this could be considered as a before? Anyways, constructive crit is very much loved! I really hope I did this justice, honestly.

“I can feel you forgetting me.” Russia's voice isn't accusing but it certainly isn't kind. “Every single day, you feel different than normal.” America taps the hardwood table with the tip of his finger, tongue licking over dry lips. There are heavy bags under his eyes, the once bright blue that reminds Russia of the sea on a sunny day, is now dulled and they're all so tired and worn down.

America swallows, and he winces. There's the taste of copper, and his lungs constrict momentarily. He was never told it would hurt, he was told that it would be a gradual thing. “I can't do this anymore, Russia.” His government is on the verge of collapsing, his states are vocally unhappy and what had made the American so prideful was now this pit of shame and self-hate. “I hurt too much. I'm too tired.”

“Bullshit.”

America coughs, and blood comes up again. “A-anyways dude, I won't forget you. Why the hell would I forget you?” He runs hand through his matted, oily hair. “'sides, 's not like I'm gonna die. Just gonna pass on my status to someone else. She's very nice, and pretty neat. I think her name is Amelia.”

“Damn you.” America doesn't move, but he stops tapping at the table now. “Fuck you, America. You're a coward.”

“Am I really?” Toneless, the stare bores right into Russia's violet eyes and there's no longer an expression. “Is it really cowardly to know when to give up?”

There's a long pause, a lingering of anger and it's Russia who makes the first move, by grabbing America by the front of his shirt and slams him against the wall. Of course, he hits it hard and causes it to crack from the force. He glares down at Russia, fingers curling into a fist and slams it against his face. In retaliation, Russia punches him right in the stomach and American lurches forward.

“It's _insulting._ ” Russia finally snarls. “Some of us have survived through war and bosses who try to kill their own civilians, and you can't even handle a little war and recession.”

America kicks him in the shin, and elbows him, effectively getting Russia to release him. While Russia is still recovering from that attack, America decides to add salt to the wound and slam his head into the wall, and there's a sickening crunch. Of course, despite the blood running down the side of his face now, Russia returns the assault with a kick in the leg. It delves into biting, more punches and kicks until they're on the floor, hands around each others necks.

“Hey! Hey, _hey_!” England's voice is sharp, alert and neither know what's happening until they're forcibly being pulled away from each other, still kicking and throwing punches.

“Fuckin' _enough_!” A more raspy, heavily accented voice snaps and America is thrown into a near by chair, and he lets out a silent _oomph_ as Russia is pushed into another one just a few feet away. It had taken four nations just to rip them away from each other. Prussia looks pissed as he stands off to the side, next to his brother. Canada is near the wall the two had been earlier, with England next to him.

“We're here for peace talks,” Germany says. “To put an end to all of this.” He sounds just as tired as America feels. “Let's not fight please.”

Nothing more is said as Nations start to pile in.

 

–

 

America awakens in the middle of the night, an ache in his lower stomach. He rolls over onto his left side, facing the wall and his cat hops off, in irritation of being woken up. The pain quickly moves up to underneath his ribs, and the next thing he knows, he can barely feel anything and he's sure his organs are failing.

He curls up now, opening his mouth to call out for _someone_ , **anyone** but nothing comes out. Canada sleeps in the next room and there's a ringing in his ears. Somewhere in the back of his mind is a noise, between explosions, yelling and gunshots to the calming, soothing music of a violin. Everything around him spins, so he lays there until it all stops.

From beneath the curtains of the dark room, dawn peeks in and casts shadows. Time passes slower now, as the sun slowly rises and the seconds drag on until there's a soft beeping from his alarm clock. At first, he isn't sure why it's going off right now and he isn't sure why he hears the floor creaking outside of his door or quiet, tired voices.

Once everything subsides, he climbs out of bed and stumbles a little, body pushed to the point of exhaustion and his stomach growls loudly. A sweet smell wafts from downstairs, and he hears the clinking of silverware. He doesn't remember having guests over. A little curiously, but more cautiously, Alfred heads down the steps and follows it into the kitchen.

One man sits at the table, with straw blond hair and thick eye brows, hunched over and a newspaper in his hands and another stands at his oven with a frying pan and a spatula.

“Honestly, America, your president shaking hand with Russia's boss isn't _that_ big of a criminal activity.” The man at the table says. “At least we call came to an agreement, I'm actually surprised both of your bosses agreed to stop the meaningless war. Now, your states just have to agree with to get along, though it looks like Texas still wants to secede as well as California.”

Alfred stands there, dumbfounded and unsure of what to say. Bosses?  _ What _ ?

“You should sit down. Breakfast will be ready soon.” The other says, as he peeks over at America.

“Uh, that's great and all _but_ who the hell are you guys and what are you doing in my home?”

The man at the stove drops the spatula onto the floor, as the guy at the table lowers the newspaper, a frown on his face. “America, don't joke like that.” He chides.

“No seriously, who the fuck are you?”

The other two share a look, and the man at the oven is very visibly upset. “You forgot already?” The hurt is too genuine for him to be an intruder and Alfred tenses, visibly. “I'm your brother, Canada.”

Alfred doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't have a brother, does he? Especially one named after a goddamn _country._ “And who are you?”

“I-I'm,” The man at the table sputters, as if trying to comprehend the situation unfolding before him. “I'm your big brother, England.” he says, coughing a little. “You shouldn't have forgotten us so soon.”

Alfred stands there for a moment, a heavy frown on his face. There's a dull ache in his stomach again, and he feels oddly sore. Yesterday's and last night's events feel like some fucked up movie to him, like it wasn't real. Finally it clicks, he knows these people, of course he does!

“O-of course,” America says, now forcing a laugh and rubbing the back of his head. “I was just jokin'! God Canada, don't look like you're about to cry!” He quickly walks across the threshold of the kitchen and takes out a coffee mug and fills it up with coffee, avoiding looking at both of them and taking a long drink from it, the bitterness and heat burning his tongue and throat.

_Not again._ Nausea settles in now, and he tries to ignore it as he refills the cup and sits down across from England.

“Please don't joke like that,” Canada says, his voice high pitched and strained. Nations becoming humans is too uncommon, that most don't know how to handle it. Death is common in their lives, but yet, _choosing_ this is something that doesn't happen often. Nikoniko only recently passed away due to old age, and Japan had taken it pretty hard. “ _Please_.” Some Nations are forcible stripped of their status, Prussia being a good example for them all but even _Prussia_ is still around.

“You guys should go meet the new America,” America says. “She's pretty neat.”

England slams the newspaper down on the table, stands up, the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the floor and he storms out. The front door slams, and Canada quickly busies himself with finishing up the pancakes.

They eat in silence, and England doesn't return for the rest of the day. For America, it passes slowly and he doesn't know what to do with himself. According to Canada, time is different for Nations, and he suggested this just may be normal for him now. They try to stay away from the topic, but they both know it's causing a huge rift between them but America doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to apologize for the choice he's making.

After breakfast, and when Canada has left, America runs to the bathroom and pukes. It's violent, and there's a little bit of blood. His stomach empties itself of it's contents, body screaming at him and when all that's left is acid and tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes. His chest heaves, lungs desperate for air and they  _burn_ , and he sits on the cool tile floor. Is he being punished?

“Russia said it's insulting.” America says, later that night, as they sit outside of the town and on his car. The city lights contrast against the dark sky, with the stars glittering above them. “Do you think it is?”

“You've never been one to care about what other people think,” Canada says. “If you think this is a good idea, then, it's a good idea I guess.” He goes quiet.

“There's a but in there.”

“ _But_ ,” Canada relents. “but I hate it. You're annoying, but I grew up with you. She won't have your memories.”

“You two can make new ones.”

It had been an argument against the Mother, a struggle for her to agree with his choices. She said he had been born because he was capable, that it's very rare for her to allow this. She didn't even let  _Rome_ , who had been dying very painfully, recant his Nation status. As time went on, America suffered. He bled internally, he was bedridden. His country is-was-will be-falling apart, and he can't handle it anymore. He's not the Roman Empire, he will never be Rome.

He will never compare. And finally, the Mother had cupped his face into her soft hands, and beautiful dark eyes stared into his own.  _“You are serious.”_ She finally says. And she finally agreed, so long as he found someone else to take his place, because it wasn't time for the country to be done yet. It had taken him over fifty years before he finally found someone so much like him, it was almost scary. Her name was Amelia, a biochemistry major at UCLA.

“But it won't be the same,” Canada mumbles. “But if you must.”

 

_If I must._

 

–

 

 

“Yeah, we can go there.” America says, as he finishes packing up his stuff and grinning at Canada. “I won't forget this time, I promise.”

“You said that last time, too.” Canada says, trying his hardest not to pout or sound too upset. This had become too common now. America is displaying symptoms similar to Alzheimer's, and he knows, somewhere deep down, America's time as _America_ is almost up. “So, what name did you decide on?”

“Alfred,” He says. “I'll be Alfred.”

“That's cool.” The brothers go quiet as they exit the meeting room, everyone else had already dispersed. “You look sick, are you okay?”

“Yeah, bro, I'm just tired 's all.”

“Do you just wanna do lunch at another time? You can go home and sleep,”

“Don't think I'd be getting much of that,” America mutters, knowing Canada can't hear him, even with their odd super hearing Nations have. Their strength, their regenerative abilities, everything about them is so much more superior to a human. What would last a human a life time, such as deafness, can only last about a month or two for them before they recover. They were made that way, the earth helps them recover.

They are children of the Earth after all. Not many have met her, but from the rumors, she is a beautiful woman whose dark skin glows with an otherworldly look, and her eyes are such a deep amber and she is enticing and calming, with a melodic voice. Canada isn't sure who all has met her, but she has appeared to some in their dreams. She is a vision they all wish to have, but never will.

“Huh?”

So America slaps him on the back, too hard and laughs. “And give up the offer of free food? No way dude!” The laugh is too loud and obnoxious, Canada knows it's fake.

Something inside of America lurches, a pain that shoots through him again and his lungs angrily constrict and body goes on overdrive. He can't make out his surroundings, and a face in front of him is weirdly familiar and strange.

He misses a step, he hears only static and everything is blurry.

Alfred misses a step on the marble stairs.

 

–

 

Canada taps his pen against the wooden table, as he reads the words in front of him. He can't focus on it, Quebec is still demanding independence from him. His boss is considering it, and down south, nearly two years ago, Texas and California had seceded from the United States and they let the two former states go without a fight.

“So, dinner later? France had said he'd pay.” England says, looking at his former colony.

“I did not!” England pointedly ignored him.

“Hmm, I'm not too hungry,” Canada replies, looking up. “I have a lot of paperwork to do.” He yawns and rubs his eyes. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Right, right.”

Canada gives him a reassuring smile. “Don't worry, England. You, France and I will go out for dinner tomorrow and France can pay.”

“No, I won't!”

“Or he can cook.”

“I will do that,” France says, with a little nod. “But I don't want Eyebrows there.”

The meeting room becomes chaotic after that, with England raising his voice and France doing the same and everything just goes downhill and the meeting hasn't even started yet. Spain cheers France on while Prussia chants for them to fight, while Germany struggles to get them to stop. Canada is sure this is a new record for them.

Yet everything goes quiet when a presence is sensed from the doorway and Canada stares at the newcomer. Her hair is as yellow as straw, curled at the tips and clipped back with a star shaped hair clip, her eyes as blue as the sea and she's a little on shorter side.

“Uh, 'sup?” It's distinctly Southern, and Canada quickly stands up. This must be the new America. “Don't ya know it's rude to stare at a lady?”

“A-are you lost, miss?” England asks, breaking the silence and gives an awkward cough.

“No idea,” She shrugs, leaning against the door frame. “Also, I could hear y'all from down the hallway.”

“England, that's the _United States_.” Canada finally says, eyes still wide.

 

_Oh._

 


End file.
